Protégé
by Merina Thropp
Summary: The Graf watches Alfred - so different, yet so similar to a certain page boy from 1813. And watches his son fall in love. Both prove equally interesting.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: I've been trying to tie up some loose ends in my life recently. Full disclosure - I originally started writing this as a Secret Santa gift for 3andastra3, as she loves the Graf/Alfred dynamic. I quickly realised that the Graf was an incredibly difficult character to write, and failed to finish the piece. Recently, I gave it another try. I want to gift this piece to 3andastra3 along with a sincere apology for taking so long time to fulfil my Secret Santa to her. Happy (much-belated) Christmas, 3andastra3!_

* * *

_"(On the similarities between Alfred and the Kaiser's page) It's no coincidence, Krolock is very anti-authoritarian. His interest in Alfred makes that evident. Alfred himself is interested in the mysterious - not to mention, love; the vampire bite is a metaphor for the sexual act. 'Alfred's soul already belongs to me.' For Krolock wants to say that Alfred has long since left the world of Professor Abronsius, because he finds the lure of Krolock's night world more fascinating."_

_\- Michael Kunze, book and lyrics, Tanz der Vampire_

* * *

He hears the boy before he sees him.

"Professor? _Professor?_"

The night air is thick with snowflakes, muffling sound and sight alike beneath a star-speckled sky - yet the voice that carries through it all is earnest, steady, clear as the ringing of ice. The castle looms ahead, a mere twenty feet away - his sanctuary, his kingdom, awaiting the return of its ruler - but the voice stops him short, and the Graf glides to a halt, silent as a shadow upon the freshly fallen snow.

Curious, that any mortal traveller should wander so close to his domain at this hour.

Curiouser still, that said mortal should call out with such ardour, without fear for his life, for the wolves that howl in the depths of the forest and the vampires rumoured to dwell within the mountains.

And most curious of all is the boy's gentle, barely discernible accent, the inflections that mark him as a foreigner to these parts.

"I'm here, Professor! I'm right here! Where should I go?"

The snowflakes ripple and swirl, just a little way down the mountain, disturbed by an unwelcome presence - and then a figure stumbles into view with a _crunch_ of boots-against-snow, hunched against the cold and laden with suitcases, his face obscured by the motheathen scarf wrapped clumsily about his shoulders.

"_Professor!_"

Foolish child, he muses. The boy seems oblivious to the danger - or else, too intent upon finding his beloved professor to care that he might be eaten alive by wolves if he continues to shout.

The Graf sighs, the sound carried away by the wind. Such devotion. Such naivete. How easily the young forget themselves, in desperation to please their elders.

How long has it been, he wonders errantly, since a foreigner had stood - naive, unknowing - on the threshold of his domain? There had been another. Long, long ago now. Another foreigner, though this one had been a Kaiser's page, not a Professor's assistant, who had stood before the castle with similar cries of desperation upon his lips, pleading, sobbing, _screaming_ for the girl he had lost...

The Graf shakes his head. The memory makes his unbeating heart ache with the kind of pain and regret that only very particular victims can induce. God loves to taunt him.

He turns his face to the snow. He sweeps the heavy weight of his cloak over one shoulder; an unconscious shield against the unforgiving memory. Let the boy-traveller be ravaged by wolves, if that be his fate.

The Graf must return to his domain, to the safety of a place where guilt and regret are contained, barred behind the gates of a graveyard. Where the darkness embraces him like an old friend. And where he has a son to care for, a ball to prepare, an imminent seduction to plan...

He will not think of the boy again.

That is, until the boy falls in love with his _sternkind_.

The Graf decides - poised upon the roof of the little inn, watching the two young mortals through a crack in the wood as they whisper together over a steaming bathtub - that God has a cruel sense of humour.

He has travelled here with one purpose and one purpose alone; to extend an invitation to his _sternkind, _as he calls her, the girl with fire in her eyes and hunger in her heart for the very things her parents pray she will be delivered from. For months, he has watched her from afar, called to her in the depths of night, longed for the taste of her blood. Now the time has come to reveal himself, and if she be willing, sweep her away with him at last.

Yet the boy - _that_ boy, the foreigner, the one from the snow - has crossed his path once more. And there is no mistaking the look on the youth's face as he gazes, open-mouthed, at the pretty girl before him.

The Graf is no fool. He has seen that look before, on the faces of so many other clumsy, inferior men who sought the affections of his victims. And every time, he has seen that look darken, turn bitter with the sting of rejection, as their beloveds come running to _his_ arms instead of theirs. He tastes victory with every sip of their blood.

There had been one exception, of course - a French page boy who had not turned bitter, who had instead remained true to his love, until the very end and beyond - but the Graf does not wish to dwell on that. Some memories are, simply, not worth the pain.

Besides - there is no reason to assume that this boy, young and naive as he is, might share any similarities with a page boy from eighteen-thirty. For this boy is clearly a student, with his suitcase full of books labelled for Königsberg University. He has the slender, delicate look of one who has grown up eating very little and working very hard, with a mop of dark curls framing soft, timid features.

Sweet, his son would probably call him. Sweet, and unsullied by the darkness of life.

Those eyes are, at present, fixed upon his _sternkind_ as though she is an angel sent from Heaven itself, his shoulders hunched with shyness as she whispers conspiratorially to him. The Graf resists the urge to leap down between them and send the boy running, screaming, for his beloved professor - though the thought is a pleasant one. For he is clearly in love. Desperately, pathetically in love.

The Graf digs his nails into his palms.

The student might not resemble the page in looks, but he seems set upon following in his footsteps nonetheless. For he is one of those rare mortals more deserving of his victim than the Graf himself, monstrous creature that he is, will ever be.

That is why God has placed such a boy in his path again, surely. To torture him, as he always does. To cut open that old wound again and coaxe the guilt, the regret back to the surface.

_You killed a page boy, good and pure and loving as he was. Now, will you kill an innocent student too?_

If only he could be more like his son. His dear, cruel, fanciful son, who danced through his immortal life as though the mere concept of guilt was a mystery to him -

\- And inspiration strikes, at that moment.

Of course. _Herbert _will take care of the boy.

Hadn't his poor son been begging for a treat ever since last year's fiasco of a ball, and the emancipated farmer he had been subjected to feed upon? Such a boy as this, well-mannered and properly educated...his son will jump for joy. And nothing brings the Graf greater happiness than his son's well-being.

The Graf draws a slow, calming breath. Already, he feels as though a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

Herbert will seduce the boy, bite him, ruin him. Innocent blood will not be on the Graf's hands.

Not this time.

"_But - but your Papa!" _

The boy's plaintive cry pulls the Graf from his thoughts, and he blinks back to the present, returning his gaze to the pair of young lovers below. The boy is blushing crimson at whatever his clever _sternkind _is suggesting, and the Graf crouches over the lip of the roof, eyes narrowed and fixed upon the boy's face.

His _sternkind_ deserves so much more than this lovesick fool.

But Herbert...Herbert will simply adore him.

* * *

_A/N: More to come._


	2. Chapter 2

"Father. Father, I'm speaking to you."

He hears the words, but the meaning escapes him. His mind has room only for her. For the specimen he had sampled earlier that evening. A wonder reconciled with reality, that is what she had been, with eyes bright as stars and the delicate arch of her neck like a swan.

His precious girl, his Sarah, his sternkind...

"_Father!_"

Something sails past his left ear, and he blinks back to the present, his hand snapping out to catch it instinctively. A hairpin, studded with tiny amethysts - the sort of fussy, pretty little thing that only his son could own.

The Graf heaves a sigh.

"Herbert." He turns slowly, sedately, to level his son with a look of disapproval from across the library. "If you wish to claim my attention, I ask that you do it in a manner befitting your rank. This behaviour is unbecoming of you."

Firelight warms the room, flickering every few moments when the wind howls. His son has draped himself over the chaise lounge in front of the fireplace, cloak tossed on the floor and chin propped on his hands like cat resting upon its folded paws, a look of exasperation on his face. A spectacular collection of gleaming hairpins have been spilled across the silk cushions; the Graf notes, with a sigh, that Koukol will undoubtedly be picking them up off the floor for the next few weeks.

"You didn't hear a word of that, did you?" his son demands. "Did you?"

He flops back on the cushions with an air of a man suffering a great and terrible lot in life, and the Graf turns his face back to the window to hide a smile; his son's behaviour is known to deteriorate steadily in the lead up to their yearly ball, worsening the thirstier he becomes, and this year is no different.

No matter - he will cheer up as soon as the dancing begins.

The snowflakes dance beyond the window, and the Graf imagines his sternkind, dancing with them. Arms flung out. Head tilted back. Her nightgown billowing about her like the robes of an angel...

"You are besotted to an absurd degree with this one," Herbert's voice shatters his vision, loud and demanding attention. "I will expect a veritable goddess to grace us with her presence tomorrow night."

"She will be here by sunrise," the Graf says softly, watching the snow. "And she shall outshine your wildest imaginings."

His son makes a stifled, sceptical sort of noise and mumbles something inaudible.

"Out loud for us all to hear, Herbert," he says patiently.

"I _said_, what about the rest of us?" Herbert grumbles, tossing his hairbrush to the floor and seizing a handful of pins to adorn his hair. "What are we to feast on, if not this little innkeeper's daughter of yours? Hmm? And don't you dare suggest another disgusting farmer -" He shivers delicately. "- I would rather starve until next year than stomach one more of those."

The Graf hesitates. He had hoped to surprise his son at the ball - for Herbert loves surprises - but he also wishes to raise his son's spirits, and he can think of no better way to cheer him up in the present moment.

Drawing the curtain against the snowstorm, the Graf crosses the length of the room, stopping behind the chaise lounge and wordlessly taking Herbert's last glittering pin from his outstretched hand.

"You recall the professor I told you about." He glides the pin into place in his son's hair, completing the elegant twist that has been constructed; Herbert hums in approval, settling back against the cushions. "The one currently residing at the Chagal inn. Our new -" He smirks. "- _Dr. Helsing_ in the making."

Herbert wrinkles his nose, drumming his fingernails upon the oaken coffee table before them. "Oh. Ugh. Him? On second thoughts, perhaps a lousy farmer would be pref -"

"He has an assistant, you know."

The drumming ceases, with remarkable abruptness.

"…An assistant?"

The Graf hides his smile. His son's lilting voice has the high, strained edge of someone trying very hard not to sound interested – and failing dismally. Dear boy, he has the subtlety of a twelve-year-old, and the Graf would not have him any other way.

"Yes, Herbert, an assistant. He is about your age, I would wager."

"Oh."

"Polite, educated. A student from Königsberg."

"_Ohh_."

Herbert twists in his seat to look at him, and the Graf feels a lurch of affection for his son. Herbert looks like a child whose Christmas gifts have arrived early, his eyes glittering with the light of possibility, and his brightly painted nails clutching the back of the chaise lounge with excitement.

"Pretty?" he breathes.

The Graf casts his eyes to the heavens – Herbert is nothing if not predictable. He recalls the plain, unassuming boy who had gawked and stammered with such inelegance as his sternkind unwittingly wrapped him around her little finger, fidgeting in his faded clothes.

"No," he says, simply.

And then, because his mind cannot help but draw a comparison, he recalls the page boy. Fresh-faced and golden-haired, dressed in silk with a feather in his cap. Even down on his knees in the snow, broken and begging for mercy, he had been beautiful. The Graf could still feel the clutch of those trembling hands on his cloak - feeble, hopeful.

_Take me_, he had sobbed, again and again, a babble of French words carried away by the wind. _Take me, not her. Take me instead._

The Graf closes his eyes, pushing the memory back, like a wave, back into the farthest depths of his mind. That boy will haunt him for eternity.

Will this one be the same?

"...Herbert," he murmurs, coming back to himself, and drawing a breath. "Listen to me. You must know, the boy is already in lo -"

But his son does not seem to be listening, for he has already slid off the chaise lounge, seizing his cloak from the floor and tossing back his hair with a sense of sudden, alarming purpose.

"Herbert."

"I'm going to get him!"

"You are not."

The Graf has glided to the door before his son can take another step, closing it with a swipe of one hand and holding out the other to meet his son's advance.

"He shall come to us. I assure you, the boy is quite the devoted prodigy of the old fool. I am certain the boy will accompany him to our gates -"

"But what if he doesn't?" Herbert is bouncing on the spot, almost breathless with excitement, a feverish look in his eyes. "How can you be certain? He might stay behind to - to guard their belongings, or protect the village, or -!"

"We shall have mortal guests before the night is out. Of this, I am certain."

His son stares up at him - half-mutinous, half-imploring - his hands twisting together as though fighting the urge to beat against his Father's chest like an angry child.

The Graf heaves a sigh and wonders, not for the first time, whether it was right to give his son the gift of immortality as early as he did. There are some things - control, prudence, patience - that he fears it is too late now for his centuries-old son to learn.

"Herbert, I promise you. Neither of us shall go hungry this year. I shall have my sternkind, in all her glory - and you shall have your little student. It is only a matter of time."

He rests one hand consolingly upon his son's shoulder, and tilts his chin with the other.

"And we have plenty of that, do we not?"

* * *

_A/N: More to come._


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: This story has got a lot of attention recently - thank you to everyone for the kudos, and welcome aboard! :) It's so lovely to see people still kicking around in this quiet little fandom. We're in the home stretch now, just one more chapter to go after this..._

* * *

He is right, of course.

They arrive shortly before dawn, the senile old man and his ever-loyal disciple. Beneath the arch of the portcullis, bathed in the light of the moon, the Graf takes a moment to toy with them both - dropping a hint here, an ominous inflection there, and watching in amusement as the boy's face grows paler and paler with every word.

Still, he holds fast to his beloved professor's arm. Back straight. Chin up. Bag clutched in one hand. Wearing his devotion like a badge of honour for the world to see.

Like a page boy, serving a Kaiser.

Memory surges. The Graf recalls - he cannot _help _but recall, though he curses himself for it - that other boy who had stood in place of this one, another boy longing to save his beloved, and devoted to his own figure of authority. What a pair they make, the two of them - fair and dark, student and page, ready to lay down their lives for the girls they loved.

And yet...

As they enter the castle, the Graf focuses his gaze upon the boy, a frown creasing his brow. Alfred is plainly frightened, his heartbeat thrumming frantically against his ribs, and yet - there is something about the way he gazes at the castle above them, lips parted in fascination, and those swift, feverish glances he darts at Herbert's fangs, eyes rapt with…

... _Curiosity._

How interesting.

"Please, good sirs." The Graf allows his voice to fill the hall, a great booming echo that makes the boy jump half out of his skin and tear his gaze from Herbert. "Come in, come in. Make yourselves at home."

The Professor prattles on like a buzzing insect, but the Graf still watches his assistant out of the corner of his eye, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

_Curiosity is a deadly trait, boy, when you are facing monsters such as ourselves. You will hesitate before striking, linger before running. Your fascination is a danger to yourself and your Professor, though you do not realise it yet._

"...You must be _tired, _of course?" the old man is saying, with about as much subtlety as Herbert's flirting, which is to say, none at all. The Graf clenches his teeth beneath a tight, mirthless smile, and returns his gaze to the Professor.

He will deal with the old man first.

And then - then, he will conduct an interrogation of this curious, contradictory boy who means to steal his precious _sternkind _away from him.

.

"_My sponge!_"

Any other time, the Graf might have laughed - long and loud, until the cobblestones shook with it - at the sight of a young man overwhelmed with emotion over a miserable, wrinkled old sponge.

Any other time, perhaps. But now, he has something more important to do.

The boy launches himself towards him, and the Graf reaches inside himself and _tugs _at that delicate, elusive power all vampires possess - the power to sense a victim's emotions, to glean something of their thoughts, their desires. He wields the power like a coiled snake inside his mind, and as the boy approaches, he strikes.

Alfred's mind is as easy to penetrate as a pool of clear water.

His _sternkind's _face shimmers at the surface, illuminated like that of a goddess. Beneath that lies the Professor, and a strained knot of emotions along with it - loyalty, frustration, and deep, deep fondness. A glimpse of Königsberg. A church full of sunlight. A cramped library.

And buried in the depths, a shifting array of images - twisted, ugly demons with dagger-like fangs that morph into a graceful figures with Herbert's sly, inviting grin and the Graf's raven hair. Evidently, the boy is struggling to reconcile his preconceived notions of vampires with the reality he has encountered. The images burn white-hot with terror, confusion, curiosity, and half-stifled desire.

Interesting indeed.

The Graf pulls back from the boy's mind at the same moment he pulls the sponge out of reach, and Alfred stumbles past him, hand still outstretched. He whirls to meet the Graf's gaze - then darts a glance at the open door - then back again - as though torn between fleeing the room, or staying to see what might unfold.

The Graf regards the boy thoughtfully.

"So young. So brimming with fascination." He smiles a cold, knowing smile, and Alfred stares at him. "You do not need a senile old man to order you around, boy. He could never understand what is is that.._.captivates _you so."

Alfred swallows, fiddling with his scarf. His eyes flit to the staircase where the Professor has disappeared - nervous, _guilty_. Like a child caught with his hand in a jar of sweets.

The Graf feels a vicious surge of amusement.

_You ought to choose your assistants with more care, Professor Abronsius. This one is far too interested in monsters for his own good, or yours. You think him unfailingly loyal to you, pompous old fool that you are. _

_But I wonder…_

He begins to circle the boy with the leisurely pace of a hunter, sponge raised in front of him like a piece of bait.

"I know what you feel, boy. I have seen your mind."

Alfred draws himself up, looking stricken. The Graf probes tentatively at his mind again - but this time, he meets resistance. It's as though a thick sheet of ice has formed instinctively over the lake, protecting the thoughts within. Alfred's eyes watch him - wide, fearful, _defensive_. His hands ball into fists by his sides.

The Graf shakes his head to himself, half-amused, half-pitying.

_You don't want to fight me, Alfred, any more than your beloved did. You only think you do, because a witless professor has brainwashed you into believing so. But deep down...I think you would sooner offer your throat to me, than plunge a stake through my chest._

_Shall we find out?_

He glides to a halt before the boy - and holds out his arm, palm open, offering the sponge.

"If you could but give me your trust..._I _could lead you."

The words hang in the air between them, accompanied only by the low moan of the wind and the gentle _thump, thump, thump _of Alfred's heartbeat. He frowns - first at the Graf, then at his outstretched arm. Doubting his words as much as his gesture.

But his own hand twitches...flexes...reaches out slowly, so slowly, as though unable to resist...to lift the sponge from the Graf's hand, and draw it back to his chest. The Graf turns his face away to hide a smirk.

_Like reeling in a fish on a hook. _

Then he faces the boy with new eyes. Eyes that are soft, fathomless, their depths impossible to reach. Eyes that fix upon the boy's and hold, _hold_, as he steps towards him, tugging him over the threshold of consciousness and under his spell.

He lowers his voice to a deep, coaxing timbre, and spins the boy a web of fantasy with his words - the same web he has spun year after year for so many victims, ensnaring their minds as a spider ensnares its prey. He speaks of freedom, liberation, immortality - all the gifts his dark poison can give.

And all the while, Alfred listens - mouth open, swaying a little on the spot and gazing up at him with the kind of raw, avid, almost _hungry _look that sends a vicious surge of triumph through the Graf's veins.

He bitterly wishes the old man could see this.

How amusing, to think that he had seen the boy as a rival - no matter how pathetic - for his sternkind's affections. Now, face to face with him at last…he reaches out to the boy, cupping his chin and tilting it upwards, the better to see his eyes - and feels a chill of pure delight at a victory already assured.

_See, Professor, how your protégé gazes at me as though I hold the key to the universe itself? See how he hangs on my every word? See how he longs for my bite, though he hardly knows it yet? His soul is mine, all mine, and you never saw it coming. You could not dream of it. You fool. You simpleton._

The scarf has slipped to Alfred's shoulders, his throat laid bare beneath it - soft skin, wet pulse, warm blood - and the Graf licks his lips unconsciously, mouth dry with sudden thirst.

He could take the boy right now. Surely that would be the greatest victory of all. Herbert would throw a tantrum for the next century, yes - but would it not be worth it?

For if the boy is killed, then he cannot fulfil his predecessor's destiny. He cannot follow in the footsteps of that other boy, who walked this same path so many years ago; he cannot throw himself at the Graf's knees in exchange for his beloved, and send the Graf's conscience - what little he had left - spiralling into chaos all over again.

Better to strike now, and kill the boy before he can complicate matters any further.

_...Then what are you waiting for? _

He hesitates, fingertips hovering beneath Alfred's chin, feeling the feather-light pulse of human life. He can feel the boy's eyes on him - wide, trusting, innocent as a lamb about to be slaughtered...

_Familiar_, in a way that twists the knife of guilt beneath his ribs.

The page boy had trusted him too. After their bargain had been struck, he had removed his scarf and opened the buttons of his collar with an almost unsettling serenity, silent tears streaming down his cheeks all the while. Over and over, his lips formed the name of his beloved, mouthing it like a prayer, even as the Graf clasped the back of his neck and drew him close...

_Your life for hers, young one, _he had promised him, just before biting. _Know that she will live a long and happy life, and I shall tell her of your sacrifice. She will remember you. Be at peace._

At the time, he had felt nothing for the boy, for his grief, his heroism. No, he had felt only the same endless, aching hunger as always - and then, a short time later, the glorious satisfaction of a fresh meal. He had carried the boy's feebly stirring body into the cemetery, where Herbert and the rest of the rabble had shared his remains.

Then he'd devoured the girl anyway, like the monster he was.

Like the monster he _is _-

\- The Graf twists away sharply, snatching his hand from Alfred, breaking the spell.

He hears, rather than sees, Alfred stumbling back to himself behind him. Gasping out a breath. Shaking his head. Waking from the warm, drowsy, half-trance that had so nearly consumed him.

And then - the sound of snow skidding beneath boots. Footsteps clattering up the steps, across the hallway, and away down the corridor. The door to the guest bedroom slamming shut with a _bang._

The Graf stands alone in the courtyard.

_You let him go. _

He lets out his breath in a gush, drawing his cloak tighter around him as though in defense. His mouth is still dry with thirst.

_Why did you let him go?_

Did he think that by letting _this _innocent live, God would forgive him for the last time? That he could somehow buy back a piece of his lost conscience with Alfred's life? Lessen the burden of guilt upon his shoulders? He sneers inwardly at the thought. No, of course not. Never.

_...Perhaps._

He shakes the thought from his head. No matter. What's done is done, and the boy is long gone now. Herbert will have his treat after all, and young Alfred shall join his kingdom soon enough, one way or another.

He turns and follows Alfred's footprints in the snow, up the steps to the heavy oak door of the castle. Starlight dances upon the threshold, and icicles tremble above him, filling the air with the delicate clinking sound of wind-chimes. Beautiful and deadly, this haunted kingdom of his. Just like its inhabitants. No wonder the boy could not resist it, resist _him._

He imagines the Professor catching the tell-tale scent of decay, of corruption, upon his assistant as they prepare for bed, and the thought sends a delicious thrill of victory through him. He grins.

Tomorrow, he will show Professor Abronsius where his most trusted assistant's true loyalties lie. Tomorrow, the house of von Krolock shall feast.

Tomorrow, he will _win_.

* * *

_A/N: More to come._


	4. Chapter 4

_Have an epilogue, dear readers! ...Let's not talk about that fact it took me 3 months to get it posted :) t__hank you sincerely for following my odd, rambling little fic for such a niche fandom. You rock._

* * *

He will win, yes.

..._But not quite yet_, the Graf thinks, passing by the guest chambers later that night and glimpsing, through the half-open door, the familiar pale gleam of his son's hair, shimmering in the candlelight.

To allow his son to eat one - or worse still, both - of their guests before the ball would be nothing short of disastrous, for he cannot expect the motley retinue in the cemetery to follow the rules if Herbert so utterly flaunts them.

The Graf breathes a sigh - then slips noiselessly through the door and into the room.

His son is perched upon the edge of the coverlet, fair head bowed, hands knotted together as though restraining themselves. The Graf thinks, errantly, of a young prince in a fairytale, contemplating his sleeping princess - except that this prince is tracing his sharp, white fangs with his tongue, and the princess happens to be scrawny student who intends to hammer a stake through their chests as soon as he has the chance.

The Graf smiles wryly.

_You will not kill me, boy. After last night, we both know you are too beguiled by our kind, by _me_, to slaughter us like you should._

He rounds the corner of the bed, peering over his son's shoulder. Alfred appears to be caught in the throes of a nightmare, tangled in a nest of sheets, sweat coating his brow and his unruly curls tossed in every direction. One hand grasps blindly at the air, the other is clutched around something bulky and wooden, half-buried beneath the pillow -

\- The Graf swallows a hiss.

A cross. Of course.

"Herbert."

He waits for his son to look at him. Slowly, as though struggling to tear his eyes away, Herbert tilts his face to meet his - and his face glows with a curious mixture of reverence and hunger alike.

"Father...how did you find the loveliest boy in the whole world to bring home to me?"

"You are not to touch him until the ball. You know this. Do not test my rules, Herbert. Not this time."

Herbert is not listening - his eyes have slid back to the boy on the bed, as though unable to stop themselves.

"You said he was not pretty," he breathes, voice soft with incredulity.

The Graf blinks. "I am not one to embellish the truth."

"But you could not have embellished it enough," he whispers, bending low over the bed to gaze at the boy's face, something uncannily like adoration in his eyes. "Don't you see? Look at him, look at his lashes…see the way they touch his cheek?"

He dusts feather-light fingertips across said lashes, one eye at a time, in rather the same way he usually fondles pretty trinkets or new shirts.

"I heard him scream in his sleep. I couldn't just ignore the poor darling, could I? I had to come to him, I had to comfort him." Thoughtfully, he strokes a few curls back from Alfred's forehead, twirling them around his fingers before smoothing them into place. "I wonder if he's dreaming about me..."

"If the boy has been screaming, we can be assured of that," the Graf says, lips twitching, and Herbert bats delicately at his shoulder with a tutting sound.

"Oh hush, you." He sighs despondently and leans over the boy again, gazing at him, drinking him in, as though hoping to see the depths of his soul through sheer willpower alone. "I do wonder what he thinks of me. He stared a lot in the courtyard, didn't he? And when I winked at him, he blushed. Blushed! Oh, it was the most adorable thing, I could have bitten him right there and then..."

The Graf resists the urge, just barely, to raise his eyes to the heavens. Time and time again, he had tried to teach Herbert the art of glimpsing his victims' minds - but such things took practice and forbearance, two things his son had no time for.

If only the boy had happened along sooner, he might have provided the motivation Herbert really needed.

"_No...n-no, please..._"

Herbert's breath hitches as Alfred's voice scrapes softly, feebly through the gloom.

"Hush, my darling, hush," he whispers, caressing the boy's cheek in slow, soothing motions. "I'm here, you sweet thing. Shhh, now…"

"Herbert, the cross. Watch yourself."

"I am, I am," Herbert mumbles distractedly, tilting his cheek to press it upon the pillow beside the boy, dark curls mingling with his son's golden waves.

The Graf shakes his head in bemusement whilst Herbert continues to whisper sweet, comforting nothings into the boy's ear. He is quite plainly besotted. Besotted with this – this mousy boy with his thatched-roof hair and stammering voice and apparently exemplary eyelashes. This is the boy, of all boys - and there had been so many - that his son has finally lost his head over.

He cannot understand it - but, he reminds himself firmly, he does not need to. The boy is, after all, no longer his concern.

"...And to think that he's mine," Herbert is crooning. "Mine, mine, mine. For all eternity. How lucky for us both!"

Alfred shifts in his sleep, arching his neck back and mumbling something that sounds like a name - the Graf can guess which one.

Beside him on the pillow, Herbert swallows hard, eyes darting, tongue whetting his lips.

"Father -"

"No, Herbert."

A light breeze winds its way through the room, ruffling tousled hair and damp skin. Herbert moans and twists his face away, pushing himself up off the pillow.

"But why not? Why wait?"

"The risk is too great. One twist of his arm and either of us might be burned. And I am opposed to dying for the sake of your impatience, Herbert."

"But I'm thirsty -"

"The night is young. If you wish to stand by the gate, I am quite certain a stray farmer or two would provide an ample snack -"

"I told you I don't want a horrid farmer!" Herbert bursts out in a hiss, sounding exactly like a spoiled five-year-old once again. "I want _him!_ I want him _now -!_"

A loud snore from the other side of the bed makes them both freeze.

The Graf rises smoothly, poised to dive for the door. Herbert tucks his legs beneath him like a cat ready to flee, eyes wide. But the old man simply snorts - mumbles - turns over, and lapses back into his steady snoring once more.

Herbert ducks his head, and has the decency to look a little sheepish.

At the door, the two of them pause for a moment. The Graf stands to the side, arm outstretched, gesturing for his son to go first; he does not want to risk Herbert doubling back and locking him out. But Herbert appears to have no such plans in mind. He simply gazes one last time over his shoulder - hungry, wanting - back at the boy curled up on the bed.

The Graf regards him, a sinking feeling of trepidation low in his stomach.

"Herbert."

"Mm?"

Perhaps he should try again to tell him, as he had once before. To warn his son that the boy is in love already - a foolish kind of love, but love all the same. Love that will not evaporate, after Herbert has got his teeth into him.

Love like the love of a page boy, so many centuries before.

"Father? Is something the matter?"

His son gazes up at him expectantly, and the words hover on the Graf's lips, but - he shakes his head, letting out a heavy sigh.

He is a fool, if he thinks for one second that unloading his own guilt and regret onto his son's shoulders will make Herbert actually _change his mind_ about pursuing the boy. Compassion has never been Herbert's strong suit.

_Something he learned from his father_, the Graf thinks bitterly.

No, he has done his part, in trying to scrape out some small semblance of redemption for himself. Alfred's life has passed through his hands already. There is no more to be done.

"...Nothing, my son. Nothing at all."

The door clicks shut behind them, obscuring the boy and his Professor from sight once more.

A sense of resignation settles upon the Graf's shoulders like cold chains.

It's the _inevitability_ of it all that weighs upon him, more than anything. The boy's pure, foolish love. His son's appetite, as insatiable as his father's. The constant cycle of death, from generation to generation. The heartbreak and horror their kind will always breed.

The Graf closes his eyes, feeling all at once very, very tired.

"Come, Herbert. We have a ball to prepare for."


End file.
